Bound By All The Rest
by SnowboundMermaid
Summary: Barney, Robin, a week in Staten Island. What could go wrong?
1. Monday Morning, the first

The upstairs bathroom in Loretta's house is pink. Really, really pink. Pepto-Bismol pink. Eraser pink. Pig pink. Barbie pink. Loretta called it Mamie Eisenhower pink, which was a big thing in the fifties, when the bathroom was remodled. Pink and gray towels hang from the clear plastic towel rods mounted on the wall. Robin's towels are pink here; Barney's are gray, same as they are at home. Her towels aren't pink at home. They're gray, too, because she and Barney don't divide towels by gender like Loretta does. Robin squeezes a ribbon of toothpaste -red, white and green striped- onto her toothbrush -white, with white bristles- and squints into the fog that still covers the ostentatious gold-toned oval mirror over the pink sink. How does Loretta divide the towels when James and Tom stay over? There's the question. Not that she's going to ask Loretta. That would be weird. Almost as weird as the thought of Barney growing up in this bathroom. The imgaes don't fit.

She rinses and spits, parks her toothbrush next to Barney's in the pink plastic toothbrush holder and braces both hands on the counter. One week. She can do this for one week. Seven days. Ten thousand and eighty minutes. Subtract all the mintues spent at work, commuting to and from work, out with Barney -or _in_ with Barney, for that matter; childhood bedroom sex has a certain appeal to it, as does ensuring that the shag carpeting in the basement lives up to its name- and it's hardly any time at all. Pretty much. Almost. She pinches a tissue from the pink needlepoint covered tissue box and wipes the fog from the mirror.

Technically, this is Barney's house, which makes it also technically hers. His and hers and James's and Tom's, if she's going to get into particulars, which she is, because otherwise, she has to face the fact that she and Barney are going to be spending the next week under the same roof as his mother and her new husband, while an army of contrators work their magic on apartment 12-H. Technically, this is their house, the whole family's; the Stinson family home. Barney and James bought it, leased it back to Loretta, so Barney and his wife have a legal right to be on the premises. Technically, this is the Stinson family home, and, technically, she's a Stinson. Scherbatsky-Stinson on legal documents, but there's no way the house could know that. No way the house could reject her for that.

It had other reasons, better reasons. The "We Could Have Stayed at a Hotel" argument still echoed off the pink tiled walls. The "We Could Have Stayed at Ted and Tracy's While They're in Spokane" argument was probably still waiting for her in the bedroom, from the Barney-getting-dressed sounds that came through the crack under the bathroom door, half a degree too precise and too loud. It's not worth bringing that one up again. They'd have to commute from _Westchester,_ and if they were _right there in Westchester_ -Barney's inflection carries even in memory- then Jerry would want to know why they would rather stay in an empty house instead of with him and Cheryl. Which would bring them back to the hotel issue, and she's too tired, after a night spent in her husband's childhood bedroom that shares a wall with her newlywed in-laws, to open that can of worms again.

The "We Could Stay With James and Tom" argument isn't even an argument. Eli and Sadie have chicken pox. James knows Barney has had it, because they had it at the same time - they shared calamine lotion baths in this very same pink bathtub; no chance of fudging that one. Robin had had it, too, one hellacious week when she was eight, but James doesn't have to know that. Sick kids are gross. The only thing worse than two sick kids is three sick kids. Which also means there is no "We Could Stay With Marshall and Lily" argument, thanks to Eli and Sadie sharing their germs with all three Ericksen kids at once. Which leaves Robin and Barney here, Robin staring down a bottle of bubble bath shaped like a long-necked cat. The cat bottle wins, like it always does. Stupid rhinestone eyes.

She grabs one of Barney's hair products instead of her own, purely out of spite. Puts it back, because she can't remember if it's one of the stand-up things or one of the slick-down things. She dispenses a dollop of her usual stuff in the palm of her hand, works it through her hair and plugs in her hair dryer. It roars to life, drowning out the sound of whatever the hell it is Barney is doing in the bedroom. He's run out of clothes to put on; she's counted the hangers.

He's not in the bedroom anymore by the time the dryer shuts off. She cracks the door, because his silence is rarely a good thing. Keeps one ear perked while she applies her makeup and buttons a tailored white blouse over navy pencil skirt. He doesn't come back.

The scents of coffee and warm bread call to her from downstairs. She follows scent, heels in hand, to the kitchen. Pushes the door open. Food would be good. Her stomach constricts, reminding her how far she is from the bagel place around the corner from home. She reminds it that this is only for a week, that there are bagels on Staten Island -Barney has assured her that there are- and it's not going to kill her to make nice with the in-laws for a few minutes before the two of them flee to Manhattan for the day. She puts on her best newscaster smile and offers an experimental, "Morning," to the room at large.

Sam and Loretta, already at the table, return the greeting. Sam gestures, with the hand that holds a GNB mug, toward an empty chair, place already set. Barney, at the coffemaker -that's his job here, in the mornings; making the coffee- grabs a second mug, fills it and turns to offer it to Robin, his smile wide.

Her fingers slacken. Her shoes drop to the ground. His collar is open, tie loose about his neck, and he has a toaster pastry in his mouth. A whole one, with white frosting and sprinkles on it. She sinks into her chair with a whimper. This is going to be a long week.


	2. Tuesday: Scenes From a Korean Restaurant

Robin doesn't speak Korean. She can't follow the specifics of Barney's conversation with Mrs. Park, the owner of the Korean deli, so she sips her green tea with lemon -Barney's usual, and therefore hers by association, even though this is the first time she's set foot in the place- and listens for her name. For the purposes of this discussion, her name is Mrs. Barney. He'd introduced her by name, first and both last, and Mrs. Park did recognize her from TV -Metro News One, as it turns out, because Mrs. Park only watches Korean soaps these days, but it still counts- so Mrs. Park knows who she is, but it's only ever Mrs. Barney, in reference or direct address. Maybe it's a Korean thing. Maybe it's a sign of affection. Mrs. Park seemed to like her fine, enough to give her a whole plate of sesame seed cookies, all to herself, so that could be it, or at least part of it.

Mrs. Park might possibly like Robin, but she adores Barney. There is no question of that. Mrs. Barney may rate a whole plate of sesame seed cookies, but Mr. Barney -Robin is pretty sure Barney wouldn't be Mr. Robin- gets a bowl of soup from a big pot behind the counter. The soup smells spicy and fishy and vegetable-y. Robin kind of wants some, and she kind of doesn't. She has green tea and sesame seed cookies, so she's not starving, and there's going to be dinner in a couple of hours anyway. Mrs. Park ladles Barney's soup into a plain white bowl, and directs him to a tall stool at the counter, cushioned in red. He spins the stool around twice before he settles onto it. He's tall enough that he doesn't need to use the footrest to give himself a boost, the way Mrs. Park does. The woman is seriously tiny. Robin thought she was a kid, the first time she saw her from the back, from size alone, but then Barney said something in Korean and Mrs. Park turned around. Silver streaks in the black hair pulled straight back from a round, lined face, overplucked brows, a slash of red lipstick her only makeup; Mrs. Park was definitely not a kid. She was Barney's first boss, ever, and this whole soup thing, with the stool and the ladle and the bowl that is plain white, not the red and white of Robin's cookie plate and the other dishes she's seen set down at other tables, has the feel of a ritual about it. They've done this same thing, this same way, many times before, in a time before either of them knew Robin even existed.

Maybe it's even a tradition. Mrs. Park holds her breath when Barney puts the first spoonful to his mouth, and then it's like somebody threw a light switch inside both of them. They've done this before, but not for a long time. Maybe not since Barney worked here, more than half a lifetime ago. She tries to imagine him the way he must have been back then, meld the Barney she knows with the one she's only seen in Loretta's photo albums; gawky, too thin, sticky-out ears and a mouthful of metal, picture him wiping down tables or stocking shelves, taking out the trash. It doesn't work. He's come too far. The only image that sticks is the one she sees now; gray suit, blue shirt, tie covered by the paper napkin Mrs. Park tucks into his collar. He lets her.

They talk fast. Barney, because he's Barney, and Mrs. Park because she's excited. Mrs. Park talks at Barney while he eats. Her hands flutter. A lot. maybe it's nerves, or maybe that's how she always is. Barney never said, so Robin doesn't know. He doesn't talk about his time at Park's Deli much. Hardly ever, in fact, but they were so close today, practically there, according to him, that it would be rude not to stop in for a minute. It's been more than a minute. Closer to thirty now, according to the clock above the counter.

Not that she minds. She doesn't mind. It's kind of nice to see him like this. Relaxed. Happy. Fish soup makes him happy. She wouln't have guessed fish soup would make him happy. Not this happy. Not just the fish soup. The whole place. She can't read most of the signs on the walls, but the words don't matter. The pictures do most of the talking. Buy this thing. If she likes this thing, she should try that thing, which goes great with that other thing, and hey, what a great deal if she gets them both together and adds a drink. Good ol' capitalism, the same anywhere she goes.

The difference is, this isn't anywhere she goes. She's in alien territory here. Barney territory. Not that Barney is an alien, though she'd had her theories before she actually met either of his parents. It's not that Barney is from some other planet or something, not in the literal sense. Is she using that right? She checks a language site on her phone. She has it bookmarked for moments like this, though those usually happen at work, not on the way home from work. Not that they live in Sam and Loretta's house. They own it, technically, but they don't _live-there_ live there. It's only for the week. Six days, now. Not even a whole week anymore. That has to count for something. _Breathe, Robin. Look at the screen._ Literal means real; figurative means not real. Okay, then, literal. She really does mean literal. She has that much going for her.

Barney is almost done with his soup now. It's not a big bowl. He has it tilted toward him, at the precise degree to allow him to get the dregs, but not so far that he's going to carry half of what remains home on his pants. Maybe he learned that skill here. Mrs. Park's hands go still. Her mouth pinches. She looks back over her shoulder at Robin, then back at Barney. He answers with a nod. One word. Robin is going to guess that word is _yes_.

Her cookie snaps in half in her hand. The fallen half lands on her skirt. It's sticky. Mrs. Park didn't give _her_ a paper napkin. Apart from the whole stack of them in the metal dispenser not six inches away from her elbow. It's the principle of the thing. A person having to take care of sometihng for themselves is different from having somebody else do it because they're looking out for that person. For all Robin knows, maybe it is that geeky kid Mrs. Park still sees when she looks at Barney, that kid she wants to talk out of...or into...Robin has no idea which direction Mrs. Park wants Barney to go on this one. She isn't sure she wants to know.

Barney removes the napkin from his collar. Sets it aside, next to spoon and bowl. Adjusts his tie. Says something to Mrs. Park, too quiet for Robin to hear, but she does make out her name. _Robin_ , not _Mrs. Barney_. Slides off the stool. Any traces of the kid he used to be are gone now. He takes out his wallet. Mrs. Park's hands flutter like manic butterflies. She switches to English. Insists, she won't take his money. She crosses her arms. Frowns. She might be blushing. It's hard to tell under the flourescent light. Robin pops the half cookie she's still holding and takes another sip of her tea. Pretends she's engrossed in the language page on her phone. That's as good an excuse as any, work stuff. Not that she wants to talk about work stuff, because she doesn't. She wants fish soup Barney a little while longer. She shuts off her phone. Holds out a sesame seed cookie between thumb and forefinger as he approaches the table.

He nips the cookie from her in one bite. His teeth nip the pads of her fingers. He's acquired a paper bag somewhere between counter and table. Behind him, Mrs. Park flutters a hand in her general direction. Could be an apology, could be nerves. Could be the latch of her bracelet caught in her sleeve. When in doubt, smile and nod. That seems to do the trick. Barney moves the rest of the cookies into the bag with one deft tip of the plate. He turns for the bus bin, and Robin gets it. There's the Barney who worked here. She can see it now, and it makes things that much harder. She wasn't expecting that. He holds the paper bag over the open top of Robin's tote.

She nods. He drops it in. Holds out his now-empty hand. She threads her sticky fingers through his. Mrs. Park tilts her chin upwards. Says something in Korean. It includes _Mrs. Barney._ Mr. Barney's answer is short, while Robin gathers phone and tote. She still doesn't understand the specific words, but if she had to take her best, educated guess, she'd go with something along the lines of, _I will_. All of a sudden, the week feels far too short.


	3. Wednesday: Almost Woke You Up

We should tell them. No, that's too harsh. Robin stares through the darkness, at the sloped ceiling of Barney's old room. There's a name for that kind of ceiling. Ted would know it, but she can't call Ted now. That would be weird, and not only because of the time difference. She'd have to reach across Barney to get her phone, because it's on his nightstand. It's a tight fit in the bed, with both of them. Under normal circumstances, that would be fun. She'd ike it to be fun. They could use some fun. She could. Barney makes his own fun. She's always liked that about him, loved it about him, even. Sometimes, she hates it about him, though, the way he can saunter into the first place he ever worked and turn on the charm and sudenly it's all cookies and soup.  
I think we should tell them. That's better. Not as confontational. Qualified. Her opinion. Barney likes opinions. Mostly his own. He has a lot of them. About everything. Especially about the thing they aren't talking about. That they should be talking about. People are going to notice. It's not like they can hide what's going to happen. That would be impossible, even for him. Spending a whole week under the same roof as his mother. How was that ever a good idea? The woman literally made him inside her body. She knows things. Sam, too. The man probably has a direct ine to God or something. They're going to find out. People are going to find out.

 _I think we should tell people_. People, not just Loretta and Sam. Marshall and Lily. Ted and Tracy. James knows, kind of. Not all of it. Whatever Barney told him. If James knows, then Tom probably knows. All Robin knows is that there's a tight knot in her throat, the pillows are too soft, and she can't find a comfortable position in this bed. They have more room at home. Had more room. Will have more room. She hopes they'll have more room.  
Barney lies next to her, on his back, fingers interlaced over his chest, thumbs steepled, a holdover from the days of suitjamas, in case random bimbos wandered by in the dead of the night. He doesn't wear suitjamas that much anymore, at least not when she's home. Not when he's with her, really, because he doesn't pack them when they travel together. Most times, he doesn't wear anything to bed at all. Robin is fine with that. More than fine. Sleeping naked is not an option here, so, here, he sleeps in pajama pants. Plain navy blue flannel tonight, with white piping an inch above the cuffs.

There's a pajama shirt, too, white piping at collar, cuffs and the useless pocket over his left pec. The condom pocket, he'd called itwhile they were first dating, but she's pretty sure it was meant for something else, back when people started making pajamas. He isn't wearing the pajama shirt tonight. His thumbs meet in the middle of the N in Cornell, gray letters on a dark red t-shirt that has seen some wear, but not in the time she's known him. There's probably something passive-aggressive about that, something she's supposed to read into his choice of shirt.  
His choice of that particular shirt, really, because the fact that there is a shirt at all is pretty damned blatant. When Barney wears a shirt to bed, he only wants to sleep. Nothing else. Sex is not on the table, or on the bed, or against the wall, or anywhere else, for that matter. It flat out isn't. Tonight is a shirt night, something he's only reserved for food poisoning, jet lag, sunburn, or the third week of the month, when he says she's gross and crabby. This is not the third week of the month, but it is a shirt night, despite her silky peach thing with the spaghetti straps and stragegically placed lace inserts. He's on his back, asleep, a position which will last approximately seven and one half minutes, before he flops into a semi-fetal position, face smashed into the pillow, and snores like a Vancouver lumber mill at peak production. She glances at the clock on the nightstand. Four minutes and thirty five seconds, give or take, until he flops.

 _I want to tell Lily_. There. One person. Her best friend. Best friend other than Barney. That's an important designation. She knows what Barney is going to say about that. He's going to say no. He's going to say he loves Lily as much as she does -and he does- but Lily can't keep a secret. Which she totally can. She didn't say a word about being pregnant with Daisy for almost all of their wedding weekend. Her shopping addiction. Doubts about getting married too soon, about being a mom, that kind of thing. Big stuff. Lily can keep the big stuff under wraps when she needs to, and this -Robin sucks in a breath, stretches her legs out beneath the covers - this is big, so Lily can keep it quiet until Robin says she doesn't have to anymore.  
Telling Lily could even take the burden of telling people off them, really. Lily would tell Marshall, who would tell Ted, who would tell Tracy, who has been dying, literally dying - okay, not literally dying. Nobody is literally dying here. Figuratively, then. Tracy has been figuratively dying for her first shot at getting the intervention banner out. Not that they actually need an intervention, because things are going to be how things are going to be, but it would get everybody in the same place, without kids, for a couple of hours.

 _I'm telling Lily_. A statement, not a question. She doesn't need permission. What she needs is to erupt in a flood of verbal diarrhea, to be tired and scared and angry and itchy and worried and maybe a little excited, but not too much because what if she gts too excited and things don't go right? Then where are they going to be? They are on the same page about this, her and Barney. At least she thinks they are. He says they are, she says they are, but are they really? What if he's saying he is, to make her feel better, and she says she is, to make him feel better? It's not that she ever lied about it, not really, but when he looks at her with his eyes all big, and his lower lip does that thing and his forehead gets all scrunchy -she means more than it usually is- and his eyebrows make that kind of almost arch over his, no, forget it, she'd have to draw it, and then throw out what she drew it on, right away, because if Barney saw that, he'd know she said something, and then he'd make that face again, and she can't take being the only one to know what it feels like to have that face inches away from her face. It hurts. Lily would understand.

Okay. Robin repositions her pillow. Turns it over to the cool side. Scootches closer to Barney, until the soft, worn cotton of his Cornell shirt brushes against her bare upper arm. That's a decision. She's telling Lily. The only question is when. That's the tough thing. Lily has three sick kids, she and Marshall are basically the walking dead themselves. This isn't the time to be selfish, or maybe it is. Robin doesn't know anymore. Lily would know, but Lily's either drowing in puke and calamine lotion, or she's sacked out in Marshall's recliner, because that gives her the best view of both kid bedrooms at the same time. She's not telling Lily tonight.

 _Hey, Barn? You awake_? She queues the words, even though she knows he isn't. Already, he's starting the shift, hips and shoulders moving themselves into pre-flop positon. Once he does, he's as far away for the next couple of hours as if he'd gone behind closed doors. He'll be there, and she'll be here, all these what-ifs and if-onlys buzzing around her head. At some point, she'll sleep, more out of exhaustion than anything else. She'll wake up and he'll be in the pink bathroom, with the shower running. She swallows the words, unspoken, and turns onto her side, to wait for the flop.


	4. You and Me and the Staten Island Ferry

The deck of the Staten Island Ferry is not where Robin wants to be, this early on a Thursday morning, but the person she is married to specifically asked her. She said yes because Thursday is Dr. Makepeace day, and saying why the hell not? Makepeace has to be the number one most on the nose name for a marriage counselor, but it really is the guy's name, and he says they're making progress, so fine. She takes a sip from the big coffee, still hot enough that the cardboard sleeve isn't doing crap to insulate much of anything, and leans against the rail to consider her options.

The person she is married to is the one who wanted the big coffee in the first place, but is he the one drinking it? No, he is not. That's a Dr. Makepeace term, _the person she is married to_ , and she gets the reasoning. If she has issues with the behavior Barney exhibits at a given time, he can take Barney-the-individual out of the equation -which is a lot easier for Dr. Makepeace to suggest than for Robin to actually do- out of the equation and remember that they chose to enter into a partnership. They are a team. Fine. She still can't use the term, or even think about it, without Ted's voice filling her head with the fact that, grammatically, it ought to be _the person to whom she is married_. That sounds douchey. If Ted were the person to whom she was married, he would have corrected Dr. Makepeace during the first session, and spent the rest of the fifty-minute hour arguing over verb tense or whatever the distinction was. Might have been? Whatever. The person she married; that's close enough.

The person she married is seated on a bench a few feet away, with a bear claw in one hand and his phone in the other. He doesn't have his own coffee because he only has two hands and he can take sips of hers. Theoretically, she is also entitled to bites of his bear claw, but the way he's going, her best chance is to lick crumbs off his lapel. If she has to walk into work with a mouth that tastes like wool, she at least wants the wild night that would cause a hangover worthy of said wooly mouth. It's New York. There's food everywhere. The person she married can have the bear claw. Besides, there aren't that many crumbs. The way he manages to flick them off without dropping bear claw or phone takes talent. She'll add that to her list of things she appreciates about the person she married.

The way his mouth moves when he tries out the shape and the sound of a new word, without actually speaking it aloud; she'll add that to the list, as well. Barney's mouth, not Dr. Makepeace's mouth. She doesn't care about Dr. Makepeace's mouth. Dr. Makepeace's jaw, now that's a whole other story. The first thing the person she married said to her after they left their first session, after the world's longest four-story elevator ride, was that Dr. Makepeace seemed okay for a guy that fills in his beard with eyebrow pencil.

Robin hadn't noticed that, but, once the person she married pointed it out, including a rough diagram on the back of a coffee shop napkin, she hadn't been able to unsee it. It's almost the right shade -almost- and it is most definitely eyebrow pencil, because he keeps one -Robin has the same brand, so she recongnizes the packaging- in the pencil cup on his desk. The person she married laughed for the first time in -oh hell, she still doesn't want to count stuff like that- while they debated whether Dr. Makepeace does his touchups before or after each session, or during regularly scheduled breaks.

That was a good lunch. The person she married ate half her grilled cheese and she didn't even care. The way he got all offended over how, if a guy had to fill in anything, he should at least get the right shade, not almost the right shade, because good enough never is good enough. Either work with the natural growth pattern, get the right shade, or shave. Not that difficult. The person she married can put him in touch with a guy, but that would be inappropriate because something something doctor patient something something. The least, the person she married argued they could do, was bring in a pencil in the right shade, accidentally knock over the pencil cup, pick up the spilled pencils, but palm the existing eyebrow pencil and swap it for the right one. Dr. Makepeace would never know. At worst, he would notice something was better, but not exactly what. So far, she's said no, because that would be stuipd, but there may or may not be an extra eyebrow pencil in her makeup bag right now.

The person she married closes his eyes and looks away from his phone, leaving the bear claw vulnerable. She could just take it while he's not looking, while he's concentrating so hard that his face scrunches, his mouth puckers and spreads. Nope, too late. There's nose crinkle that comes a second before he looks at the screen again, then the satisfied sound she does not even have an English word for, which means the whole cycle is about to start over again.

Dr. Makepeace would call that a show of good faith. How would she like to respond to that? Robin glances over the railing. Jumping over the railing and swimming for shore can get crossed right off her list of potential responses. Can she give the person she married something he wants? Not a sexual favor; Dr. Makepeace made that a special rule for the two of them, after they'd written their lists of what they each wanted from the other person, to improve the current situation. They couldn't ask for anything sexual. The person she married crumpled his list and asked for more paper. She stuffed the list in her purse, because Dr. Makepeace doesn't know everything.

She's still working on the whole giving the person she married something he wants thing. She's on the stupid ferry, isn't she? She's halfway through a week under the same roof of the mother of the person she married, isn't she? Said roof, by the way, technically belonging to the person she married, thereby technically hers, which, technically, makes her legally a homeowner, which is freaking her the hell out. That's a lot of responsibility. That house would have gone straight in the 'his' pile, if the whole Dr. Makepeace thing didn't work out. She figures she is technically responsible for only twenty-five percent of the house, if she and the person she married are responsible for half of it together. One quarter for him, one quarter for her, one quarter for James, one quarter for Tom; that sounds about right. Still scary, though. What if a pipe blows in her quarter and she can't be reached because she's on air and the house gets flooded and they have to put Loretta and Sam somewhere while they get the place dried out and done over? This. This right here is why this whole thing is a very bad idea. Almost as bad an idea as taking a big swig of the big coffee, because, crap, that thing is never going to cool.

 _Robin. Robin. RobinRobinRobinRobinRobin_. She feels her name more than she hears it, like the rapid fire of an automated weapon, so she turns back toward the deck. The person she married is no longer on the bench. He's a little farther down, advancing at a rapid rate, accompanied by a dark haired man in knit cap and down vest over a plaid flannel shirt. They're both smiling, which is weird. The person she married asks for the coffee. He doesn't offer the bear claw in trade. He has the other hand free, which means his phone is in his pocket, which means Down Vest Over Flannel Shirt Guy is more important than his phone. That doesn't happen.

She hands over the coffee and takes Down Vest Over Flannel Shirt Guy's hand. It's rough. She repeats the name he gives her. Fred Ciabbatone. From the old neighborhood. Two blocks over. Still lives there, but can she believe he works in the same building as Barney? No, no, she cannot. Oh, newsstand. That makes sense. Small world. She squeezes in next to Fred Ciabbatone for a selfie. Sure, he can put that up at the newsstand.

Barney -Barney-the-individual, specifically, not, well, not-only, the person she married- winces at the scald of the coffee on his tongue. She adds that to her list, too. These are the moments, the sugar that clings to his lower lip, the way his brows pinch together, the way he bounces, actually bounces, with excitement over the stupidest things. She doesn't pay attention to the words both of them rush at her, because she has a new thing to add to the list. The way his accent slips, or lack-of-accent slips. He'd insist upon the designation, because he talks the way normal people talk, when he's in his normal life, and this isn't their normal life. Not in a lot of ways, but there he is, on the deck of the ferry he rode about a million times before he got the hell out of Staten Island, in a coat that cost more than the rent on his -well, James's- first apartment, sharing a big coffee with her and a guy who actually has a favorite broadcast of hers. His voice slips, adjusts, matches Fred Ciabbatone's broader tones. He doesn't know he's doing it, because he'd check himself. Overcompensate.

He doesn't do any of that. He takes another sip of the coffee, a smaller one this tine, because this time, he knows it's too hot, then hands it back. She takes a sip of her own, because she wants to put her mouth where his mouth had been. She doesn't listen to the question he asks her, except to register that it's an echo of whatever it was Fred Ciabbtone said. She can give the person she married something he wants. Sounds great. Fred Ciabbatone also thinks this sounds great. Saturday it is.

She grabs the remains of the bear claw and stuffs it into her mouth, whole.


	5. Feels Like It's Always Midnight

_Barney and I..._ Robin's cursor blinks from the screen of the laptop balanced on the needlepoint throw pillow in her lap. This isn't the easiest email to write. Lily has three sick kids, and one sympathetically itchy Marshall, which has to count for at least two more sick kids. There has to be some sort of sliding scale for this kind of thing. She backspaces until the words disappear. Now there's nothing at all in the empty space where the message goes. There is no way Lily is going to agree to Skype when she's on twenty-four hour nurse duty. Robin taps her index finger over the trackpad. The Barney answer would be to hire a private nurse and send her to take over for Lily, give Lily time for a shower and a nap, and then she'd be able to talk. I wanted to make sure you heard this from me first...Ugh, that sounds worse. Delete, delete, delete. The nurse idea might not be that bad.

Barney probably has a nurse guy, but she can't ask Barney right now. Barney is on a business call, and the window guy will be here any minute. The window guy is going to need Barney to show him the funky thing the window in the master bedroom is doing, because she has no idea how to explain it without using words like wobbly and jiggle and making squeaky noises. There may or may not be some discussion about the pros and cons of replacing the windows in all three bedrooms with double paned glass. Sam and Loretta don't think it's necessary, but they don't own the house; Barney and James do. Ultimately, it's their call. Sending this email to Lily's is hers.

Barney paces from kitchen to front door, phone to his ear. top two shirt buttons undone. The knot of his stripey tie is loose, his jacket probably draped over the back of a kitchen chair. He has one finger stuck in his other ear, to block out the ambient sounds. There are a lot of sounds in this house. The washing machine in the basement gurgles. The heater clanks. The third step from the bottom creaks, which is not good for restless landlords-slash-houseguests who want the occasional midnight snack, without waking their hosts-slash-tenants. Robin is the only one who doesn't know to step on the other end of the third step from the bottom if she doesn't feel confident in skipping it. She eyes the stair. Hug the wall, that's the key. The creaky part is next to the banister. She can remember that. Probably. Sam seems to have figured it out fairly quickly, but he has the home court advantage. He's probably stepped on it loads of times. She opens a note document and makes a note, then saves it. There.

 _I've been thinking about what you said..._ Weak. She highlights the line and hits the delete button. She shifts in her seat. Even though Sam said she could use his home office while he's out, she's here, on the living room sofa, shoes off, legs crossed criss cross applesauce. Stupid Marvin. That's what this position is now, ever since the first time Marvin brought the tem home from preschool. She can't get it out of her head. She's tried. It's in there. She has seven nieces and nephews. That's a lot of reinforcement for that kind of term. Maybe Sam's office would help her concentrate, without the distraction of the human perpetual motion machine that is the person she married.

Barney stops in mid-pace. He scowls, lets out a breath, releases a stream of rapid, irritated Cantonese. It's Cantonese, not Korean. She can't tell the individual words, but she's sure she can tell the difference between the two languages. That's a start, isn't it? She has no idea what he's saying, but he isn't happy. _No_. She understands that much. Pause. Another _no_. That one's quiet, softer. It hangs in the air. Its echo sends a chill over the backs of her hands. He sucks in a deep breath, holds it, lets it out. One more _no_ , this one short and firm. Whatever the question is, that's his final answer, end of story, case closed. Too bad if the person on the other end of the line doesn't like it. He's not changing his mind. He tosses the phone onto the overstuffed chair at the end of the coffee table, then sits on the non-squeaky end of the squeaky step, his face in his hands. He's done this before, probably a million times, after school, or in the middle of a long, hot, summer afternoon, after some dumb jerk kid said something stupid to him about not having a dad, about not having the same dad as his brother, about how he sucked as basketball and liked magic better. She wants to punch them all.

 _Barney and I..._ She's back to that, because she can't put it any other way. It's not him. It's not her. It's them. Okay. Three words is a good start. She glances over her laptop screen. Barney still has his head in his hands. His shoulders twitch. Crap, is that crying? He's not making any sounds. She's not sure if that's good or bad.

 _Robin, the person you married is giving you the gift of his vulnerability. What are you going to do with that gift?_ Dr. Makepeace's words echo. Vulnerabilty is a crappy gift. She sets the laptop on the coffee table, and tosses the pillow to the end of the couch. Rangers tickets, now those would be better gifts, but she'll work with what she's got.

She extricates herself from the couch cushions and crosses to the stairs. There isn't anywhere for her to sit but on the squeaky part of the step. Maybe they can get a stairs guy to fix that. Wood guy, maybe. Carpenter? They probably need a carpenter. Right now, Barney needs her. She has no idea how to do this, but she has to try. If this were Marshall and Lily, Lily would sit next to Marshall, put her arm around him, tell him she believed in him, and everything would be okay. Robin's seen Lily do that probably a million times. It can't be that hard.

Barney's shoulders twitch again, and there's a weird pull in the pit of her stomach. Definitely arm around the shoulder time. Okay. She can do this. She scoots closer, until her hip bumps against his. Her arm hovers in the air, elbow bent, fingers splayed. Crap, she has no idea what to do with her fingers. She drops her arm. Her fingers rest naturally on his upper arm. She has two options here, rub or squeeze. One of them has to be appropriate, unless this is one of those times when being present, to use another Dr. Makepeace term, is what the person she married needs, but it would be a hell of a lot more helpful if he would actually freaking talk to her and tell her that.

He doesn't talk. The shaking stills for the briefest of seconds, before he lifts his head from his hands, the corners of his mouth curved upward. His eyes are bright, the lashes spiked and wet. Laugh lines crease mouth and eyes and forehead, his face flushed red. He shifts his position, slips one hand to the back of her head, threads his fingers through her hair, and then his mouth is on hers.

The surprise of it paralyzes her for the space of half a heartbeat. The world stops, and then starts back up again, on fast forward. He kisses her again, hot, hungry, laughter still on his lips as they work their magic. She needs more hands, for his tie, for his buttons, for his belt buckle. He yanks her shirt over her head, his touch warm on her skin, and walks her backward, to the couch. Laughter rumbles deep in his chest, moves from his body into hers, and she's laughing with him, and she doesn't know why. She doesn't care. She slips the loosened tie over his head and tosses it onto one of the chairs at the exact second the doorbell rings. They both freeze.

 _Window Guy_. The thought passes between them without a need for words. Robin lunges for her shirt, tugs it back on, and resumes her seat on the couch while Barney puts himself in order. She reaches for the laptop. This time, the words come easy.


End file.
